Stretching out the fingers...

I should be more prolific.

Somedays I am overwhelmed with creativity.

I sit and sew and sew until my fingers are dry from the textiles and burned from the iron. If I didn't have a job that required me to go to school with the little ones at 7:45 in the morning, I would sew until the hours of the morning when everyone else in the house is sleeping soundly and unaware of the humming of the small machine that has stitched together the pieces of quilts and purses and clothing and pillowcases. And it feels like I just keep the thread running, much like the sentence before that describes it, while my eyes watch the magic of the machine shape usable things.

Or, maybe I'll sit and knit and knit until my thumb is bruised for pushing the needles back and my wrist hurts from the twisting. But I can see the single strand become something strong and useful--something important for the winter chill that is sure to come. Just yesterday, I made two hats that will be gifts on Christmas morning, and I began work on a scarf.

I don't always sit, sometimes I stand and bake until my feet hurt and the house smells like cupcakes or brownies or cookies. These things take little time, and I can watch them rise in the oven. Others may smile as they bite into one even as they reach for another.

These things are my therapy. If I really want to feel better about whatever might be dragging me down, I need to set creation-idle hands to work on a new project. These things I can watch form and see to completion.

I'm still not writing the way I should be. I'm not always making myself present. Because, honestly, most days I get home from the school with the little ones and I just want to sleep or do nothing. I find myself drained of creativity...and I'm not moving forward like I want to be. I can't see the pieces of my own quilt coming together, or all the stitches in my scarf, or the ingredients in my cake to see what flavor I will be. My life feels like it's standing still.

As my life is still, so is my writing. When I create the words come easily, something about the workings of my hands activating the workings of my mind. And then I run into the issue of time.

I should be more prolific.

I say this despite the two unfinished quilts strewn about the living room and the unfinished scarf in my bedroom...and the several unfinished stories on my hard drive.

I should be more prolific and finish these things to make room for new things.

What kind of love is this?

I read a post on tumblr a few days ago that really struck me...a Jane Austen quote that I'm not sure I'd ever read (and if I had, I surely had forgotten it), "I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong." [Northanger Abbey] Something in me responded to the idea that some people do everything halfheartedly, even love, and then I was overwhelmed by the realization that I am much like this quote--my attractions are excessively, annoyingly, strong.

While I was blow drying my hair this morning I was thinking about a conversation I want to have with someone....and how I want to tell them that I don't do things by halves. I don't do something with the heart unless I've thought it over and really felt around it--this doesn't mean that I don't get hurt, it means that I get way to involved sometimes. The point of this internal conversation was that I really do like this individual. In my mind I thought, "I am not in the business of doing things by halves...and that can be hard. But I am comforted by the knowledge that I worship a God that doesn't do things by halves either."

I worship a God that doesn't do things by halves. Who would have thought that such a moment of clarity would come when I was pummeling my ears with the sound of rushing air? There I was, still damp, blow dryer in hand, and completely overjoyed at the revelation that God doesn't do anything half way.

His love is all encompassing, and all forgiving. He is so fully committed that He sent His Son to die for my pitiful, wretched soul--so broken by sin that it seems impossible for a perfect being to love.

It occurs to me now that His full commitment makes my "no halves" thing seem really pathetic. I may think things through and really allow myself to get hurt because of it, but I don't think I would actually die to prove my devotion to another person. And then one begs the question, am I willing to die for Christ, for His good news, like He died for my soul? I hope so. I hope that if that day comes, He will give me the strength to be so completely committed.

I may not be in the business of doing things by halves...but thank God, He is definitely not in the business of doing anything halfway or incompletely. The story is still being told, and because He fulfills all His promises I can rest easy tonight knowing that He will come again and reclaim what is His. The story isn't over yet.

You never stop learning the important lessons....

I've been learning a lot about myself lately. Working in an elementary school has certainly lent to this "growth spurt."

For example, I've been learning about the kind of parent I'll be. I mean, we all hope to be the stellar parents that the Hallmark movies show us, but when it comes right down to it we're human and we're bound to make mistakes. That doesn't mean I can't learn from the parents at my school--the good and the bad.

Some parents make a point of coming to eat lunch with their kids once a week--I think this is a neat idea, though maybe a bit unrealistic depending on the work situation. I do think I'll try to make it at least once a month though...just so I can see how the kids all interact together.

If a teacher tells me my child may have a learning disability, I will be the first one to sign off on the paperwork--I'd rather know the name of the beast and face it head on then let it terrorize my child out of fear that it may be difficult to tame.

Medical issues. We'll get them taken care of. 

We're going to read. I'll read them bedtime stories and then I'll work on their reading with them--like my parents did for me. 

If the teacher or administration says my kid has a behavior issue in school I will believe them. Kids aren't always perfect angels. 

And I think I'll figure out some way to make sure the teachers knows he/she is appreciated. (We have parents that bring their teachers things to keep them motivated and inspired--calendars and sticknote pads with quotes, etc.) 


Most profoundly though, I've learned that I have a love for broken things.

Some of the kids I love the most--care about and worry about the most--are the ones that have behavior issues and struggle with reading and math. Now, this comes mostly from working with them the most. I can't tell you how sick I feel though when a little girl is so lonely at home that she can hardly bear the thought of going into a crowded classroom where she has no friends--and she's clutching at my fingers, hoping that I will just listen to her. So I get hugs from the kids that need the most love...and I can't say that I mind.

It's funny, these same kids that are stealing my heart now are the kids that drove me nuts when I was in their classes with them. I always hated how the troublemakers got the most attention... but when I look back on it, they probably needed it more than I did. I didn't go home to a mom that was so preoccupied she couldn't read me a story. I didn't go home to a sister that told me she hated. I didn't go home to find out that my dad was going to jail. My home was always filled with love and support.

I didn't understand that then. I'm glad I'm still learning now.

This dusty barren land had given all it could yield...

It was recently pointed out to me *cough*LeAnn*cough* that I haven't blogged in a while. I knew this was true, and I had been meaning too, honestly. My new job has left me exhausted once 3:30 hits, and I've fallen into my old napping pattern... But I keep hoping that my body will adjust to the schedule and that I'll be able to get to bed a little earlier so I can stop napping in the afternoons.

Over the last few months I've noticed that I thrive on hope. I'm sure that most of you already knew this, and it was probably something I knew for a long time but hadn't yet come to realize the entirety of its scope.

This morning it really struck me how deeply this hope runs.
I've been hoping for rain--desperately.
I've been hoping that my cousin would recover from her botched surgery well.
I've been hoping that my other cousin would pull herself together and just be okay.
I've been hoping that this "maybe someday it'll work out" would just work out.
I've been hoping that our little first grader with behavior issues would get the attention she deserves at home so she can grow into the creative girl I see lurking behind the tangled hair and eyes that haven't learned to read yet.
I've been hoping that the writing bug would just take hold of me again and never let me go.
I've been hoping.
Hoping.
Hoping.

I even surround myself with literature that emphasizes the idea of hope and I wrap it around me like a warm security blanket. And I even hope that someday my life would echo those virtues that fictional characters so easily embody: strength, loyalty, nobility, honor, courage and faith.

So it's no surprise when I see small glimmers of these things in real life that I get excited and want to capture the moments. 

I have all of this hope, all of this want, but I'm still content.

Even if the rain comes just as harvest season is about to begin, at least there is moisture.
Even if my cousin had 20 units of blood transfused and got E. coli in a hospital, at least she is alive.
Even if my cousin moved back to the wretched situation that keeps throwing her to the wolves, at least she is talking to me about it and being open about the hardships.
Even if "maybe someday" isn't today, at least I have letter writing to pass the time.
Even if our little first grader was in the office again because of a tantrum, at least she is reaching out and she hugged me later and didn't want me to leave her.
Even if I'm not writing as much as I want, at least I know the story is still alive in me and it's just setting its roots a little deeper.

"Oh, Dear I never saw you coming. Oh my, look what you have done. You're my favorite song, always on the tip of my tongue." [Civil Wars, Tip of my Tongue]

You're the peace to the restless

It's been a big couple weeks in the heart of this Nebraska-girl.

Last Tuesday there was a phone call with a certain young man that lasted over 50 minutes. This  soothed the fraying edges of my hopelessly romantic heart. His general concern for my well-being is comforting. Just yesterday I received a letter from said young man. These pieces of life that we keep sharing...I can't help but wonder at the greater picture. And still I pray that God's Hand sew the pieces into place without my own hand trying to force the pattern.

I also baked and delivered a cake that a new relative had ordered for her birthday. Baking is good for the hands that are itching to do. My hands have been so idle with unemployment that they were thankful for the fun task. Baking is also good for the inner homemaker in me that doesn't have a lot of opportunity to shine just yet.

This Tuesday I had an interview with one of the local elementary schools at 8 am. It had been so long since I turned in an application to the district that I had mostly forgotten about it, and had certainly thought it was a dead end. The interview went very well and I was expecting an answer sometime in the next couple days. Two hours later, I got a phone call from the administration building offering me the paraeducator position. All I could think to say was, "Wow, that was fast," to which the lady on the other end confirmed. With a thankful heart, I accepted the position and am excited to begin working with kids that are struggling with reading and math and other areas. This rejection-sick heart is glad to be accepting an offering, a calling.

When I look back at my past experience I see that God was whispering all along, Just wait, I've been preparing you for something specific. You have to trust Me to show you what you're supposed to be doing. Trust Me. And that trust was incredibly hard, but worth the wait. I've been a  Writing Center tutor, I've been an administrative assistant, I've been a teacher's aid, I've been a person who struggled with reading at a young age. All of these things, and so many more, have been shaping me for this moment. God is good.

Wednesday I was able to spend some time with a few of the ladies in the family. We went to get pedicures, something I've never done before. It soothed the worry-weary heart by healing the dry-heat abused feet. There's something to be said for healthy feet--the washing and care-giving is Biblical, after all.

I fell asleep to thunder and lightning Wednesday night, and I slept easy knowing the thirsty ground was getting some much needed moisture. And this morning I was woken by thunder and lightning at 6 am, an hour before my alarm would go off, and I didn't mind at all.

My heart is abundantly thankful for the answers to so many prayers, for my heart was as thirsty as the land, and God is pouring out the rain and grace that we so desperately need. Let it rain.

"For greater things have yet to come, and greater things are still to be done in this City." [Chris Tomlin, God of This City]

What can men do against such reckless hate?

This may be a little late in coming, nearly a week after the fact. Forgive me for the delay, but I've been mulling over the shooting that took place in Aurora, Colorado. Mulling and chewing and praying and...and wishing for peace.

Events like this always seems so far away from my home, the heartland of this nation.

When 9/11 happened I was safely tucked away in my fifth grade class at a rural school--it wasn't until later that I found out President Bush had taken refuge in Omaha.

The Von Maur shooting was closer to home, my cousin worked in that Omaha mall, and I believe she was working when it happened. Even that wasn't home though, and my head keeps saying that this kind of tragedy would never happen in my center of the heartland.

Aurora though... that should feel far away, but it doesn't. My brother is moving down there in less than a month now to go to school. There were kids from the school he will be attending in the Theater that night. A friend from college calls Aurora home and she knew one of the victims well. One of my dad's cousin's sons was in the theater that night. I know people who were there. People who know people who died.

And all I can think is, "How could this happen?" I have a hard time understanding how a man can come to the conclusion that the only way to fix whatever pain he is experiencing is to shoot down people--to fire over 70 rounds into an unsuspecting crowd of late-night movie-goers. How am I supposed to react to such "reckless hate?" I find myself wondering what I would have done had I been there...how would I have reacted? Would I have tried to save those around me with my body as a shield like so many mothers, brothers, and friends?

It's funny, I had almost let it go--the worry and self-questioning. I was on the phone last night with my German-praying friend when he asked, "How is the Colorado situation? Are you still thinking about going out there? I just didn't know how your parents would feel about everything with your brother moving out." I had long made my decision to not to move to Aurora with Josef, and I knew that Mom and Dad were worried. But we can't let things like this keep us from moving forward. (Now I don't know if this friend was concerned beyond the general niceties, but it was sweet of him to ask how my parents were feeling about everything.)

So, I guess to answer the question of "What can men do against such reckless hate?" we just keep moving forward. We can't let the hate keep us from doing what we know is right and true and just. We push forward.

"By all you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand!" [Aragorn, Return of the King (movie adaptation)]

I do dread other people's remarks...

The following post may seem disjointed and possibly slightly bipolar...for that I am sorry. 


I didn't get the job at the car dealership. Even though I wasn't fired and was just not hired, it feels like I was fired because I wasn't hired for the job I have been doing (and doing well) all week. The worst part of the whole thing is that I'm still going to work on Saturdays and I'm going to be training the lady they hired on Monday.

It would be a lie to say that I didn't cry in Brian's office, I did. Not an ugly cry or anything, just watering eyes and a red face. I am grateful that I was able to hold in the sobs until later. Normally I can keep myself pretty well put together for this sort of thing...it's just a bad week, though.

When I come to work on Monday people are going to ask if I've heard about the job yet...and I'm going to have to tell them that I'm training the new lady. And I want to tell them so much more. I want to tell them to treat with the same kindness and courtesy that they treat me. The Service people really liked me and told me over and over again that they wanted me to be hired.

God and I... we're still working on this issue of trust. I thought I was finally understanding, but apparently not. While I was talking to Brian about the job situation he told me that everything happens for a reason, and then asked me if I was a faithful person. He told me about his life story, and that just about made me want to cry more. He's a devout Catholic, and while I don't agree with everything about their denomination I could see the light of Christ in him. Yet another reminder from God that He is in everything, and that He has something better for me.

Brian told me that he really does believe that everything happens for a reason. So do I, so do I feel the Divine Hand at work.

There have been people in my life recently trying to force this on me. It's not that I don't know it, but I don't always need to hear it. For some reason Brian's adamant confession didn't bother me as much as someone telling me to be content with where I am. Honestly, with all do respect, I know that I should be content with whatever phase of life, but this one is so incredibly hard. I'm doing everything I can to try and stay positive, but a year of rejection is hard to swallow. It's hard to get past the disappointed hope. It's hard, so don't tell me to be content, tell me you understand.

I'm reading some great literature right now that is really helping me to embrace this God-lesson of trust. Ann Voskamp, you should follow her blog, wrote a wonderful book called "One Thousand Gifts." You should find it and read it if you're struggling with anything remotely like this or any kind of disappointment. She understands how hard life can be and how hard it can be to be content.

There was so much anger built up inside last night that it kept leaking out of my eyes and my face was so tired from the salt-drenching. When it came time to actually go to bed, I couldn't do it. I couldn't close my eyes because I didn't want to face today. But here I am, sitting at the desk that I will have to abdicate come Monday. And I'm smiling the best that I can.

Never would I ever...

I've been struck by the irony in my life this year. Everywhere I turn, and every time I think I've finally turned the bend to leave it behind, irony is right there. And I must admit, we're not really friends. When I'm reading or watching a movie or tv show I don't mind the situational irony because it's funny. That's the thing about irony, it's funny when it isn't you.

Now, I don't want to rehash all of it, but if you read my post about February you have an idea of the kind of thing I'm talking about. I think it's even more frustrating to realize the irony because then you dwell on it...  Sometimes I wonder if God finds irony amusing.

Last semester, Claire and I started regularly attending the local E-Free church, I've mentioned this before. One of the congregation members really likes working with the college group, and so she hosts these meals once a month after the second service. The food she provides is always delicious, and it's just a good ministry to us--the poor and hungry college students.

It is kind of a wonder I ever went back though. The first time meeting these people, and the lady that helps Dawn asked us what we were majoring in. A standard question, easy to answer. When I told her I was an English major with a Creative Writing emphasis, she asked me second question, "What do you plan to do with that?" I explained to her my graduate school plans and that I want to be a professor. She actually, and I kid you not, scoffed and said, "Yeah, that's what my daughter said, she put all her eggs in on basket, and now she works at a car dealership. What a waste."

....

I was shocked and offended and just said that I wasn't going to do that. Wasn't going to do that.

Here I sit this morning, at one of the largest car dealerships in my town, waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting for the phone to ring and praying that I get the full time position.

Maybe this is at the root of my frustration with not getting into graduate school. I'm afraid of getting stuck here, afraid of losing my will to go back to school. Then I remember that there's nothing wrong with this part of life. There's nothing wrong with taking some time to stretch your wings and allow some things to heal--the wounds that can only come from academia and dorm life and loans.

It's not a sin to work at a car dealership, like this lady made it sound. The people here are nice. The days are always interesting. The customers sometimes bring their kids, and they are adorable. I see people here. I talk to people. For once I feel like a semi-normal person. (Usually I say that normalcy is overrated, but it's really not.)

So, here's to a standard job. And irony.

"Humor brings insight and tolerance. Irony brings a deeper and less friendly understanding." [Agnes Repplier]

You saw me mourning my love for you...

I've had a lot of thoughts tumbling around in my head these last few weeks, and they haven't settled into any kind of order. Normally I wait for something to settle into place before picking it up and putting out there for people (you people) to read, but this is just getting ridiculous. I promised to post more, and if I wait around for something to finally come together than this blog will die (a second death, I suppose). I don't really want that to happen, so I'm just going to start writing regardless of the confusing thoughts rolling around inside this fragile mind.

My family and I went to Colorado last weekend, and it was great to see the school my brother plans to attend and the apartment he may live in. The mountains left me in awe and slack-jawed. I've seen them before but I hadn't necessarily noticed the way the sky swooped low to kiss the frosty tips.

We spent some time walking around an outdoor mall/shopping area in Loveland one evening. I spent all too much time in the Barnes and Noble--the largest I had ever seen. It was like a piece of heaven for this new graduate, and proud holder of a B.A. in English. Drifting through the aisles filled with story after story of hope and loss and pain and love and want and anything you want, I felt the overwhelming feeling to just sit down and absorb the words. Stories have always held my love and my profound need for returned love--unfortunately books are incapable of reciprocating the feeling.

One of the courtyards of this shopping area housed sculptures of animals for children to play on. The statue that stood out to me was the frog. I've known the story of the princess and the frog for as long as I can remember.

Josef snapped a picture of my sitting on the broad-back of the frog, smiling. It's a running joke in the family, and this is not the first picture I have with a stone frog.

My first summer in my newly finished basement room was riddled with nights of little sleep. It took me a while to discover that the noise that was keeping me up was the sound of frogs trying, desperately, to batter their way into my room. Soft white breasts would beat against the glass, searching for the light that came from my demonic lamp. (It's touch sensitive, and turns itself on or off whenever it chooses.) It didn't take long for my dad and brother to nickname the frogs my boyfriends. We laugh that all I have to do is kiss one and I will magically have a boyfriend.

This notion prompts these pictures with stone frogs.

A stone frog seems to have a special kind of curse, don't you think? It must be a truly powerful magic or love to break that spell--to turn a stone frog into a living, breathing prince. And this is when I wish I lived in those places of fantasy and fairytale, because love is enough to wake the sleeper from the Sleep, and the breath of a Lion can bring the stone to life.

A jolt of realization reminds me that a perfect Love has woken the sleeping soul in me, and that the Lion that breathed the stone to life in Narnia is not so unlike the breath of God breathing life into the dust that became Adam. The Love and Breath that saved and created me exists in a world where frogs don't magically become princes...but the sinners become saints, and the wicked are made new.

"This is not a dream that I'm living, this is just a world of Your own." [Rebecca St. James, Lion]

Komm, Herr Jesu, sei Du unser Gast

I remember the day Daddy came into the kitchen when I was maybe five years old. There is fuzz around the edges of the memory, but it's there--standing out proudly as one of landmarks in my childhood, a moment that would change the way I prayed every day. It was lunch time and Mommy had set the table when Daddy came to take his seat. He folded his hands and said, "We're going to learn a new prayer today." Gently, patiently, he taught his small children how to say The Common Table Prayer in German. A tradition that would shape every meal to come.

The only time I didn't utter the words vocally in the following years was when we would eat at other people's homes and school cafeterias. But always with my family it was those words that had become an integral part of home. If home is where the heart is, then my home is laced with German prayers.

College was a place where you prayed silently before each meal--words internalized, but no less real. One of the things I would miss most from Pfeifenhof (the name of our home, meaning whistle home) was the fellowship in praying simultaneously in German with three other people. Each time summer would roll around I would become eager to sit around the table and offer up blessings.

I did not expect to feel Home during Dead Week and Finals Weeks my last semester of school. There it was though, amongst everything I had never dreamed of.

We sat, two nervous individuals, at a public restaurant with steaming food before us. I hadn't thought of the prayer in my preparations for the meal, but there it was when he asked,

"Do you pray before you eat?"  

Yes.

"Is the Common Table Prayer okay? That's what we normally do."  

Yes, you go ahead and pray, we normally say it in German, so I'll just listen. I don't know what made me say that, normally I just go with the flow.

"Oh, you mean, Komm, Herr Jesu, sei Du..."  

...Yes. Yes, that is exactly what I mean. And I can hardly find the words.

"Well, we can pray in German. You had better lead though, because I don't know if I remember the last part."

And I can't believe that we're praying together over our food in German, and part of my heart is singing at how homey it all feels. It's a good thing the German comes as second nature because I don't know if English would have come so easily in that moment.

Less than a week later we're sitting at a different table, with different food, but a look passes between us and he bows his head and starts saying the words. My Daddy's words, and the words of past years long gone. He's leading this time, confidant and sure. And as we pray for Christ's blessings on our food I'm praying a silent prayer that His blessings be on this, whatever this is.

And that second prayer continues to grow.

"Komm, Herr Jesu, sei Du unser Gast, und segna, was Du uns bescheret hast. Amen."

Why are you so far from me?

As usual, it's been a while since I last posted and a lot has happened in that time period. I do promise to be more diligent in posting this summer and this next year. I forget how therapeutic blogging can be--and for me, always is.

Instead of going into long details about what has happened, I think a list is in order. This list won't necessarily be in any particular order beside that which they come to me in.

1. I graduated from college with my B.A. in English. I walked across the stage afraid that my cap would tumble off my head, but made it to the president's hand, shook it firmly, and went on my merry way.

2. The Civil Wars have been on repeat since I bought their CD last week. I can't get enough, but wish they had another CD out. There's something about the organic sound and soulful lyrics that speaks to me...

3. My brother graduated from high school. This was huge because his graduation means that my parents could be empty nesters (an idea that I have ruined, but I'll get to that in a bit). I was responsible for the cake at his party, and it was a big success.

4. I did some house sitting for my cousin over this last weekend. She has a new dog (it's actually her boyfriend's, but the basset hound stays are her house), Oliver is a slime monster--cute, but drools a lot. And he's definitely a social eater.

5. I received four rejection letters. And that means that graduate school as not as near as I had hoped. This is why my parents are not going to be empty nesters quite yet. I'm taking the year off and just working, assuming I can find a job in town.

6. There's a possibility that I could be moving to Colorado to live with my brother while he goes to film school and I work. It's a possibility, but also a kind of last option. We'll see what happens.

7. I went on a date (or two). That was exciting, and the highlight of the last two weeks of school. I could go into this, but I think I'll leave it fairly simple. We're keeping in touch, but since we both graduated and are 13 hours from each other we're not "in a relationship." Letter writing is nice.

8. Goodbyes are hard.

9. My God-lesson right now is definitely Trust--and it's written on my wrist as a reminder. Trust. Trust. Trust.

That's about all I've got for an update right now. I'll see you around though, for sure.

"How long will you make me wait? I don't know how much more I can take. I miss you, but I haven't met you. Oh, but I want to. How I do." [The Civil Wars, To Whom It May Concern]

Hope's not giving up....

This is the story of a girl with a large heart. She filled her head with dreams of fairytales--knights in shining armor, rugged heroes, ladies of high esteem. A place where anything you dreamed could be attained if you worked hard enough. 

She put off one dream (the dream of her heart) to pursue her mind's dream. Instead of being content in her place she went to further her knowledge of the fairytale. The time she spent reading and learning was well spent, but occasionally she would get a glimpse of the other dream. It didn't take much--a weekend or a break from her scholastics spent at home was all she needed to awaken the old dream. 

Her arms elbow-deep in hot water, eyes looking out over the harvested fields, she wonders why she ever wanted more. A breeze pushes through the screen of the window as she dries her hands on the white tea-towel and suddenly she's somewhere else. 

She's a pioneer out on the frontier, or a simple maid in a medieval town. And she is not alone. Instead of preparing for her brother's birthday, she's baking for a child's name day and a husband that's been working hard under the sun. Whomever she prepares the table for, it matters little. The table is prepared--the food a blessing. And that is enough. God is good.

Where did this hope come from? This is the story of a girl that had clung so desperately to hope that she didn't realize when she had let it slip through her fingers for her eyes were squeezed tight--scared to face the truth. She knew the words--God provides--but somewhere along the way she let them grow hollow. Trudging on, day after day, she forgot to offer thanks for the blessings. And the trials. And the rejections, though three there be. 

The radio was turned up, louder than it should have been, and the windows rolled down. A song began to play that she had heard a million times--and she loved it all along. Something was different this time around, and words of one of her professors came echoing back, "Read it again, the words won't have changed. But my, you have." How she'd changed, and she didn't even realize it was happening. The song was poignant. Her finger pushed the back button again and again--letting the lyrics be a heavy hammer through the dimness she had been facing. And tears press against her eyes because it's been so long since she's felt anything.

Daylight proved to chase away the darkness and contentment settled in. Peace came over her mind and settled in her heart. Though the days she will face may be difficult, she will not be alone. This is the story of a girl alive with hope. 

"Hope, sweet Hope, how much more can she take being our strength when our hearts run out of faith?... Hope is with me in my time of trouble, when it all comes crashing down she will stay by my side digging through the rubble. She's not giving up, not giving up, not giving up..." [Hope, Remedy Drive]

Top of the Mornin' to ya!

We have a few traditions in my family for St. Patrick's Day. I know what you're thinking--What does a family that's pretty proud of their German heritage have to do with St. Patrick's Day (especially when none of them are drinkers)? Well....two things.

First, my brother is a St. Pattie's Day baby. That's right, for the last 17 years we dressed him up in green to avoid pinches on his birthday. When he was little we would have green-themed parties because it was just too convenient.

This year he's turning 18, and it occurred to me that we haven't properly celebrated his birthday with a good ol' fashion party since he was 8. That's 10 years without a birthday party with his friends. Weird. So, this year I'm throwing him a surprise party. It works out well because I'm home for break and I can plan and cook while he's at school.

For the surprise party with his friends I'm making the following:
Shamrock pretzels (super yummy)
Cookie dough-Oreo-Brownies
Aztec Calendar (a favorite)
Green punch

For the family party, which he knows about:
Green velvet cake (man, is it green!)
Aztec Calendar (another one)
Watergate Salad (yum!)

I feel like I'm forgetting something.... it'll occur to me eventually, I'm sure.

So yeah. My fingers are green from the cake making tonight. Oh well, the price I pay for loving my little brother. Ha.

Second, my family really enjoys John Wayne, and in case you didn't know, he's in a movie called "The Quiet Man." It's a favorite, we've watched it every St. Patrick's Day for at least the last 5 years. I've missed it because I've been at school, but I'm excited to be home this year.

Life's interesting.

"There'll be no locks or bolts between us, Mary Kate... except those in your own mercenary little heart!" [John Wayne's character in "The Quiet Man"]

Says She's Got Hope...

The month of February was a rough one. I wish I could say it was just me, but it isn't. If I were the only one struggling it would have been more bearable, but nearly everyone I interact with was having some kind of problem too.

Really, it all started to unravel the week of Valentine's Day. Please don't take this as a single hating on the holiday devoted to couples--it's not. I really have no problem with Valentine's Day, except that it means there is way too much chocolate just floating around. In fact, I was even determined to have a good February 14th because, honestly, the week before had been awful for some people and I didn't want the trend to continue.

I went to bed that Monday praying I would get a letter from a graduate program. In my dreams I would be accepted into the Literature program at my top choice of school. It would be a day to write home about.

Well. I did call home, several times that day, but it had nothing to do with grad school letters. I was having some chest pain that was worrisome. I spent Valentine's Day morning in and out of various medical locations. Alone. (And I wasn't pining for a special someone, I just wanted my momma.)

A couple days later (Thursday) I had mail. An envelope from my preferred school. It was small, average letter size. Why do we put so much of our fate into the seals of envelopes? Inside was a perfectly creased rejection letter. My heart sank, and all through my British Literature class I was distracted. At one point, my professor called on me, and I scrambled to find the answer to a question I hardly heard. When I apologized after class for being distracted I cried. In front of a professor, whom I love but have no emotional connection with, I cried.

Since that day I've been riddled with thoughts of rejection, and in the back of my mind I can hear Professor Reek chanting, "They don't know what they're missing!" But as the days go on, his voice fades away and I'm left alone with the self doubt. What if I didn't get into the literature program because I'm not ready? I'm not passionate enough? I don't have what it takes?

This last week I found out I didn't get into one of the Creative Writing programs I applied to...and the questions started up again. (It was even the program that I was least interested in, and I still got upset about it.) Maybe this is all God's way of telling me that I picked the wrong career path.

That's just my stuff. And my stuff this month seems pretty lame compared to every thing else that my friends are going through.

I've started drinking tea again--like, every night and day. I also turned on some Anberlin. I don't know why I forget that they are one of the few bands that lets me wallow for a little while before convincing me it's time to get back up again. I need to put that in a hubby letter, something like this: "When I'm upset or depressed, put on some Anberlin and it will probably be okay in a few hours." (This rut is taking longer than a few hours to work myself out of.)

This will be a better month. March means spring is coming, and spring means there is hope.

"You're so brilliant. Don't soon forget. You're so brilliant. Grace marks your heart." [Anberlin, The Unwinding Cable Car]

There's still good in this world, and it's worth fighting for...

Well. You've all noticed this already, I'm sure, but I kind of fell off the blogsphere... and after a weekend of feeling wretched (for several reasons, but partially because I wasn't writing--and when I tried it flopped) I decided I needed to pick myself up and get with it. I found a partially started entry that I think I should still share with you...and then finish the thought. 

What was already said:

Oh, where to begin...as I have mentioned before, this semester has been crazy busy. It's been a good and bad kind of busy (I'm getting a lot done, and I don't feel like I'm drowning, but I'm also super behind on letter writing, sorry Danielle). It's been a challenge, that is for sure.

One of the largest challenges I've faced is filling out graduate school applications. Now, because I'm going into writing I have to send in a writing sample. Initially I didn't think this would be an issue at all. I've been working on this story (Morning Star) and feel pretty confident about the first couple chapters. A professor (my boss at the Writing Center) looked over what I thought I would be submitting and told me that grad schools may not even consider an applicant who submits genre fiction. (This is where things got hectic.) After emailing the school I'm looking at, this fear was confirmed. So I frantically found something "literary fiction" that I can submit, but it needs revisions.

While talking to my professor about what the writing workshop world is like, I realized that I was entering in to one of the hardest fights of my life--my academic life. I'm going to have to fight for "my thing." Honestly, the mere idea of this kind of potential confrontation has me shaking with nerves.

And the rest:

This isn't as much of an issue anymore because my applications are all in and I'm just waiting. Waiting, hopefully with some patience, for the word. I'm still nervous, sure. Maybe even a little scared about what the future may hold. But isn't that always the way when turning to a new chapter?

I did something unexpected in the middle of the application process. It didn't occur to me until one night when I was sipping at coffee with Lisa, she asked if I had thought about applying to any literature programs. I hadn't, not really. And then I just did it. I applied for a program that I hadn't really even thought about.

Creative Writing has always been my thing, just as genre fiction has always been my thing. But I can still write (genre fiction) without a Master's degree in it... and if I enter into the literary world maybe I'll be better equipped to fight for it. I only applied to the one literature program. One chance.

So don't think I'm going to stop fighting. I'm not. But I'm maybe going to take the Hobbit position for a while and just see how it all pans out. Then I'll walk to Mordor. And fly back with the Eagles.

Love you all, and I promise I'll post more frequently. :)